Phases of Beasts
by Herr Fritz
Summary: Cockroach.  Everyone called LeBeau a cockroach.  None of them understood that he was so much more!


**Phases of Beasts**

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Cockroach. Everyone called him LeBeau a cockroach. From the playful banter of Newkirk, the exasperated sighs of Shultzie, and the intentionally insulting Klink, he was persistently labeled as a cockroach.

None of them understood that he was so much more! LeBeau was a Frenchman, a patriot, a romantic at heart! Because of what he was though, he graciously took the title that he was given. It was, after all, in his nature to accept such effects and sculpt them into something beautiful; be it clay, food, and image, _qu'avez-vous_!

On a daily basis, LeBeau was given such poor instruments to work his artistic magic with. When it came to food, he was given tin utensils and pans and was expected to create wonders with them; he was wholly denied any sort of sculpting material, let alone tools.

But when it came to his image: oh! the things he could do with a name. Juliet may have been Italian, but LeBeau was French, and he knew that one could take a rose's name and fashion it into something a thousand times more beautiful than the slander it had been titled with before. As he was the cockroach, he would take the insect and morph it into a better suiting nickname, an animal far better matching to his skills.

Rather than a cockroach, he could be a mouse! Of course, that would bring jeers towards his height, but it would be worth it for _him _to know its secret meaning. With Shultz patrolling with such a façade of fierceness, it was easy to think of him as the house cat of Stalag 13. With his simple sweets and foreign desserts, LeBeau was constantly appeasing the cat; keeping Shultz content so he didn't have any desire to seek out the mouse holes the prisoners had created. For a simple game of control, it was strangely backwards. Yes, being a mouse was within reason.

But with his superiority over the German cats, perhaps it was better to be recognized as a dog. The hounds he worked with in the camp already recognized him a family, a friend who would bring them sweets and praise them, cooing to them and asking '_who's a good boy?'_ to strengthen their trust. It wouldn't surprise the boys back in Barrack 2 that LeBeau felt nearly at home with the dogs. Sometimes, when they thought Louis couldn't hear, they would joke that he must have mutt blood in him that he could communicate with the pups so well. They were cruel, but they were true; LeBeau fancied himself able to speak the words of dogs. The German Sheppard's would listen to him and respect him whenever he offered orders. Those boys loved him as much as one of their own. They certainly loved him more than the Germans, their supposed 'masters'. With a common affection, common enemy, and common language, LeBeau and his canine family _did _make a fine connection.

When he was on the idea of vicious animals, though, LeBeau liked to play with the possibility of being a Lion. Proud, ferocious, a danger to Germans everywhere; the idea was reasonable. He certainly _felt_ like a lion whenever he was able to help Tiger; proud, strong, fierce.

The only fault with being a lion is that with the bark of an order, a reminder of the chain of command, Colonel Hogan could deflate his ego and revert him back to a mouse.

Overall, perhaps a cockroach is the best fit for him anyway; small, sneaky, indestructible. With his comrades, he worked to be the largest pest he could possibly be to the Third Reich's household…

Ugh. How deplorable. Not even a Frenchman could find anything romantic in the idea of being a cockroach. Perhaps LeBeau is best staying what he is: a corporal, a patriot…

…a hero.

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**Well, that's that! I have a question, for those who review to please answer. I'm still relatively new to , and I was wondering…is it customary to send a thank you message to all the people who review your stories? I don't want to be unknowingly rude… if someone could answer for me, that'd be great!**

**Also, **_**qu'avez-vous, **_**I was told, means 'what have you'. I hope this is true, because I, like Newkirk, don't speak a word of French.**


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